Cherokee Storm. Janelle TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
Shannon wanted to end this uncomfortable conversation. Nodding agreement, she led the pony away from the cabin toward the main gate.
Oona picked up a bucket and held it out. “Water for house.”
“Yes, of course. I can do that.” Again, Shannon felt awkward, uncertain. What was her place here? Did her father’s common-law-wife expect her to obey her as she might her own mother? Or was she to act as an unpaid servant? It wasn’t the chore that offended her—she wanted to help. It was Oona’s unfriendly manner.
The pony stretched out his neck and neatly snatched the flatbread from Shannon’s hand. Oona chuckled. “He’s a thief, that one.”
“We’ll have to teach you better,” Shannon said. “If you stay.” She had to admit that there was something very endearing about the animal. As Flynn had promised, the pony had carried her uphill and down, across creeks, and through thick woods without ever missing a step.
The pony plodded after her as she led it through the entrance. She followed the worn trail through trees that had grown taller since she’d last seen them, around a bend, and up a slight incline, her heart feeling lighter with each step. Everything smelled as she remembered it. This felt like home.
As she circled a massive outcrop of rock and entered the hollow where the spring flowed out of the hill, she stopped short. Someone was there ahead of her. A slight figure in a fringed leather shirt and leggings was kneeling at the pool’s edge. By the Cherokee turban and ink-black hair, she supposed the stranger must be an Indian.
The boy glanced up and raised one palm in greeting. Immediately, she saw that although he was not very tall, he wasn’t a child.
“You are Truth Teller’s daughter.” The stranger took a step, limping heavily on one leg that was shorter than the other. “Welcome home. Your father is glad to have you here.”
Shannon walked forward to meet him. “You must be…” She tried to remember the names of the visiting Cherokee Oona had mentioned. “Gall?”
“Yes, yes.” He laughed merrily, and she saw that that the young man’s eyes were not brown like all of the other Indians she’d ever known, but light gray. “I am Gall. And you are Shan-nan.”
In contrast to Oona, Gall was small and light-skinned, not much taller than she was. His dark hair fell to shoulder length, topped with a red and yellow turban, and his fine-boned face as soft and pretty as a girl’s. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, extending her hand. “And it’s Shannon.”
Gall clasped her fingers stiffly and shook her hand up and down. “I hope you will not be lonely here,” he said. “There are no white women near.” His English was good, less accented even than Storm Dancer’s, but higher pitched and slightly lisping. Shell earrings hung from each dainty ear, and his hunting shirt bore a pattern of white flowers stitched along the neckline.
The pony pushed past her to sink his nose deep into the pool and drink. “I hope my father has what you need today,” Shannon said.
Gall studied the pony. “I know this animal. His name is Badger. He belongs to my mother’s friend, Corn Woman. Where did you get him?”
“Someone gave him to me. A Cherokee,” she explained, stumbling over her words. “A man named Storm Dancer gave him to me.”
Gall looked dubious. “If you say my cousin gave you this pony, I must believe you. Truth Teller’s daughter would not lie. But how do you know Storm Dancer? He is not a friend to the whites.”
“He said he was a friend of my father. No,” she corrected. “He said his uncle was. Winter Fox. I thought…Is Winter Fox your father?”
For the first time, the amusement faded from Gall’s gray eyes. “No, he is not. I am the son of Luce Pascal, called Big Pascal. It was a joke, you see, because my mother says he was not so tall as me. My father, this Luce Pascal, was a French trader of furs, but he went back across the sea when I was a child, and I do not know if he lives or not.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My mother is Tsalagi—Cherokee—so I am Cherokee. You see? Among our people, it is the mother who matters.”
“It’s what my father said.” The pony finished drinking and began to munch mouthfuls of new grass beside the pool. Shannon scratched his withers. “But with us…the whites…a father means everything.”
“So I have been told.” He limped to the other side of the pony and smiled at her over the animal’s back. “I will ask my mother’s friend if her pony has wandered, or if she sold him to my cousin.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“Badger is a mischievous pony,” he continued, “always getting into the green cornfields and knocking down the smoking racks. She might have sold him.” He pulled a burr from the pony’s hide. “I would be your friend, if you want.”
She nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He hesitated. “But you must take care with my cousin. Storm Dancer is…How do you say it? His head is hot?”
“A hothead?”
“Just so. The high council of the Cherokee has voted to support the English, not the French, but my cousin argues against the decision. It is a bad thing to do. We are a people of law. But Storm Dancer will not listen to reason. He goes his own way. I think he may take the French silver to fight against your people. And if he does, other foolish young men will follow him.”
“He could have hurt me, but he didn’t.”
Gall pursed his lips. “My mother says he is dangerous and will lead us to war. My mother is a wise woman. Take care, Shan-non. My cousin wears two faces. If he gave you this pony, he had a reason. I only hope that Corn Woman sold him. It would be a bad thing if you had a stolen Tsalagi pony. People would not understand.”
“I agree. I didn’t want to accept the gift, but my father said it would be an insult not to.”
“Maybe a worse thing to keep it. Among your people, do women take gifts from men?”
“Small things, impersonal. Not expensive things like a horse.” She could see that the conversation was becoming too complicated. “You could return the pony for me.”
He sighed. “I can not. We travel west, away from Corn Woman’s village. And I do not want to make my cousin angry with me. He is not a man you want angry. This is between you and Storm Dancer, I think.” He tilted his head and peered into her face. “You are a pretty woman, I think, even if your skin is too pale. Your hair is like corn silk. I have never seen a woman with yellow hair. Are many of your tribe like you?”
“Some.” She brushed a stray lock away from her face. His manner had been so open and friendly, she hadn’t expected the conversation to turn personal. And there could be no doubt that his gaze was more than casual. He was staring at her in exactly the same way as the Clark twins did when they thought she wasn’t looking.
“Mary Shannon!”
She turned at the sound of her father’s voice. He and two Indian men were walking down the trail toward the pool. The Cherokee were leading the three horses. She could see that the animals wore heavy packs. “Here, Flynn.”
He smiled at her. “Runs Alongside Bear, Ghost Elk, this is my daughter,” he said. And then to her, continued, “I see you’ve already met Gall.”
“Yes,” she answered, “and he tells me that he is a cousin of Storm Dancer.”
Ghost Elk frowned and said something to his companion in his own language. Runs Alongside Bear, a stout, middle-aged man with a wide band of red cloth tied around his head, kept his features immobile.
Her father’s mouth tightened, and then he chuckled with a forced sense of heartiness. “These men tell me they speak no English. They are some